


A Fox in a Trap

by avislightwing



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Abuse, Flashbacks, Gen, Lucien centric, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rare Pairings, Suicidal Thoughts, Tamlin the Tool, a court of mist and fury, poor lucien bby, this was so much more angsty than I thought it would be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 04:30:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8190101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avislightwing/pseuds/avislightwing
Summary: Feyre's been gone for weeks at the Night Court, and Lucien is stuck in the Spring Court with Tamlin and Ianthe as they try to figure out how to get Feyre back. He tries to think with them, but he's dealing with old wounds of his own...





	1. Chapter 1

“I said I’m sorry.”

“I said it doesn’t matter.” But Lucien’s hand shook as he wet the cloth. He hissed as he ran the cloth over the deep cuts scored in his arm.

Cuts that exactly fit Tamlin’s long, razor-sharp claws – the claws that were even now threatening to burst through his knuckles. Lucien’s master was muttering the word again and again:   _Sorry, sorry, sorry_.

Sorry didn’t close the gashes on Lucien’s arm. It didn’t stop his hands from shaking as he cleaned the raw flesh his magic couldn’t fix.

Feyre had been gone for six weeks now. Six times the span she’d bargained away to that bastard Rhysand. That first week… Lucien shuddered at the thought, and the tremor in his hands grew.

He thought it had been bad the first time Rhysand spirited Feyre away. Then, Tamlin tore half the castle apart. After this time…

Tam had said he was sorry for that, too. But sorry didn’t fix the paintings he’d slashed with those massive claws of his, the windows shattered into shards when his magic exploded out of him in uncontrolled, wild rage. And sorry didn’t bring back to life those who’d gotten in the way of that all-consuming wrath.

Lucien had scolded him afterwards, of course. Soundly. For Alis, especially. _Feyre will never forgive you, Tam. Not for her death._

Tam’s claws had shredded the front of Lucien’s tunic for that comment, and Lucien had fled. There’d been a time – before Under the Mountain – where Lucien would offer his opinion, and his friend would receive it gladly. Or if not gladly, then never with… violence.

Those days were over. The Tamlin who’d come back from Amarantha’s court was different. Harsher. The male Lucien loved, the one who’d coaxed warmth out of Feyre’s icy heart even as his own was made of stone, the one who’d wept over the slaughtered Summer Court faerie, the one who had wanted so badly to reject his responsibility as High Lord, the one who’d never wanted anything more than to be a wandering minstrel… Lucien hadn’t seen him in months. Perhaps Amarantha had killed that part of him when she killed Feyre.

And it had only gotten worse. Tamlin’s rage, how out of control his magic was now … If they had any choice in the matter, none of the servants would dare to even enter the castle.

“This is all Rhysand’s fault.” Tamlin left Lucien’s side and prowled the room, eyes hard with hatred. “The High Lord of Night and his Court of monsters.”

Lucien’s lips tightened into a thin line as he wound a bandage around his arm, stemming the steady flow of blood. _It was you who locked her up, Tam._ A memory flashed through Lucien’s mind, swifter than a lightning strike. Feyre, her face thin and her eyes wild, her hands pressed up against Tam’s barrier. Begging him. Pleading to be let out.

Trapped.

Lucien flinched as Tamlin’s fist hit the wall. The bandage loosened, and he bit off a curse, pulling it tight once more. “She’ll be all right, Tam. She survived Amarantha’s torture Under the Mountain. She can survive Rhysand.”

Tamlin turned on him, snarling. “You don’t know that! She couldn’t even sleep through the night here! What can she do against an _endless_ night?” His voice broke, and Lucien’s heart broke with it.

He’d promised himself he wouldn’t, but he’d grown to care for Feyre. For the rough-edged, defiant human, and then for the broken, beautiful High Fae. Not as Tamlin did, of course. Not as he had for his lost lover. As a friend.

But just as he hadn’t been able to protect her from Amarantha, he couldn’t protect her from Rhysand. He shuddered at the thought. After Under the Mountain… Amarantha’s play-palace was nothing compared to Rhysand’s Court of Nightmares. Nothing. Unbidden, his mind conjured up possibilities:  Feyre chained. Feyre screaming, trapped in an endless nightmare. Feyre… forced into Rhysand’s bed. He wouldn’t put it past the bastard. Not now that he had her beyond their reach.

“We’ll get her back.”

Speaking of bastards. Ianthe’s syrupy-sweet voice wound its way into Lucien’s ears, slipping into his mind and curling up there, purring like a contented cat.

Tamlin looked up, and his diamond-hard eyes softened. Lucien hated Ianthe for that, hated that she could gentle his High Lord’s rough edges when he, Lucien, was utterly helpless. “I know you think we can, but how?” Tamlin protested, his breathing ragged. “I would declare war on Rhysand. I would drag Feyre from his arms myself if I had to. But you know as well as I what war would mean.”

“War is a last resort.” Lucien ran a nervous finger along the edge of the bandage he’d just fixed in place, wishing the reasonable words out of her mouth. He didn’t trust the priestess as far as he could throw her – and he’d be interested to see how far that would be. Preferably over the edge of a cliff. “In the meantime, we have… other options.”

“Such as?” Tamlin’s claws scraped against the wood of the table, carving gouges only inches away from the strange, almost hand-shaped print Lucien noticed after Feyre left.

Was taken, Lucien corrected himself. Kidnapped. Abducted. Stolen.

Words that hurt Tamlin less, somehow.

“It’s possible the High Lord of the Night Court won’t keep her under lock and key all the time.” Ianthe’s rich voice felt like her light, purposeful fingers trailing up Lucien’s spine, and he shuddered. “Send patrols. Search for her. Perhaps she can still be found and returned without… war between the Courts.”

“I’ll do it.” Lucien pushed himself upright. “I’ll search for her.”

He didn’t know why he said it. Maybe to be away from Ianthe and her voice and her fingers. Maybe because he missed Feyre so much it felt like a constant ache in his bones. Maybe so he could feel just a little less helpless.

Maybe because lately, whenever he looked at his High Lord, he heard the crack of a whip. Whenever he saw a flash of hard green eyes, he flinched back from the memory of claws reaching out to shred him.

And he thought that maybe – _maybe_ – if he brought Feyre home, it would all be fixed. Tamlin wouldn’t lock her up again. He’d send Ianthe and her honey-pouring far, far away where she wouldn’t touch Lucien’s mind or body ever again. Tamlin would play the fiddle, Feyre would paint, and they’d all be happy. No more darkness or horrors or tattoos or masks or bargains.

For the first time in ages, Lucien found himself wishing for the Autumn Court. He wished for a warm cup of cider spiced with cinnamon, the smell of woodsmoke in the air, the sound of crunching leaves underfoot.

He had to remind himself of what other memories resided there:  the screams of his beloved echoing in his ears, his father’s cruel laughter, scarlet blood staining an amber floor.  Scarlet like his hair. Like Amarantha’s hair. Like the rose petals scattered on the ground, crushed by Rhysand’s boots.

Like the miasma that obscured Lucien’s vision as Amarantha tore his eye out. Like the searing heat on his skin as Feyre frantically tried to solve the riddle. Like the marks on his back that weren’t allowed to heal for a week as he lay there in agony, trying not to scream and hurt Tamlin more, desperate to get to Feyre and help her, terrified that at any minute Rhysand would come put an end to his misery with a flick of his damned daemati power – but at the same time longing for the peace those black talons destroying his mind would bring.

Lucien didn’t realize he’d been gone until he was back, jolted into himself by the touch of Ianthe’s red – _red, red, red_ – painted nails. “Is everything all right?” she cooed to him, her body nearly flush with his.

He staggered back, shoving her away. “I’m fine,” he spat. “Fine,” he repeated to Tamlin.

“You’ll search for my bride?”

 _Don’t call her that, Tam_. The image of Feyre in that contraption of lace and tulle Ianthe forced her into trickled into his mind. _Don’t_. “Yes,” his mouth said.

“It’ll be dangerous. If you run into Rhysand or one of his Court –”

“I know,” Lucien interrupted. It would change into a suicide mission like the one Andras had been sent on – it wasn’t even a year ago, was it? Back then, Lucien had suggested he go search for the human girl who would break the curse. Back then, Tam had flatly refused. _You’re my best friend, Lucien, my right hand, my emissary. What would I do without you?_

Now – “Do it,” Tamlin growled. “And give them hell from me if you can. Winnow her back here. Whatever you have to do.”

Lucien heard the implicit threat in the words. _Don’t come back without her._

That was the moment his heart shattered. When he realized that his High Lord, his friend, his savior –

Lucien had been replaced.

Tam always needed someone to save. Once, that person was Lucien. He’d been heartbroken then, too – fleeing a court of nightmares that surely even Rhysand would have a hard time topping, running from the brothers who held him back as his father spattered the walls with the blood of the girl he loved. Straight into Tamlin’s arms.

Tam had fought for him. Killed Lucien’s own kin alongside him. For the first time – barring his mother’s kindness – Lucien felt loved, here in this court of new flowers and springs of starlight and warm sunshine. His heart lightened. Tam sometimes joked that years dropped off him, that it must be the rejuvenating power of spring that kept him young.

And then came Amarantha and her curse and the search for the mystery maiden, and Feyre killed Andras, and Lucien saw in Tamlin’s eyes the same expression he’d seen when he stumbled across the border, sobbing his eyes red – _a scarlet-stained ballroom_ – his brothers hot in pursuit.

Tamlin, the savior.

Lucien longed for that Tamlin again. He was desperate for his High Lord to see his panic when Ianthe approached him, the way he flinched at too-sharp noises.

But now Tam was one of the things Lucien flinched away from, and the other male was blind to Lucien’s pain and loneliness.

Lucien wondered how long Feyre would last in Tamlin’s arms before she, too, had no need of a savior, and he abandoned his bride for another broken bird.

He wondered if – perhaps – it had already happened.

And if he was just as blind as his master when it came to Feyre’s pain.

He shook off the thought. _Bring her back._ That’s all he had to do. _Bring her home_. Save her from red hair and red roses and darkness and Rhysand.

_We’ll get her back._

Cauldron boil him, Mother save him.

_I would drag Feyre from his arms myself if I had to._

How could he find Feyre if he himself was lost beyond reason, left clinging to the faint cobwebs of two homes and the color red and lost love?

_Whatever you have to do._

How could he free her when he himself was trapped?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thinking this was going to be a one-shot, but if anyone wants more Lucien angst, I might muster up a few more chapters!
> 
> Note: Edited 12/2/16 because I finally figured out how to format it properly


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucien's been away from the Spring Court for a while now, but Tamlin's influence still weighs heavily on him. He's lonely - and he's been having dreams of flowers that comfort him but also haunt his waking hours...

Lucien was cold. So cold. The kind of cold that burned into his bones, numbed his sun-gilded skin turned pale from relentless rain and relentless fear. It was the kind of cold that made the memory of the warm spring soil between his bare toes seem like nothing but a distant dream. His hair, usually the color of maple leaves in autumn, was drenched dark by icy rain that dripped down his back, sending involuntary shivers along his spine.

It was such a relief.

The only red Lucien saw here was the sky before a storm.

It wasn’t that he was happy, exactly. He missed the quiet warmth of the Spring Court sun, the heat of a crackling fire laid by bark-skinned faerie servants, the soft scent of roses wafting in his bedroom window.

Roses.

He missed them especially. When he first arrived at the Spring Court, he would wander through the gardens for hours, breathing in their heady scent, losing himself in their brambles. Sometimes he would curl up within the rosebushes, their thorny stems forming a protective bower, until Tamlin found him hours later and carried him back inside, eyes closed and muscles twitching. Sometimes it would be from a chill. More often it would be because his mind was locked in a memory, his eyes unable to see anything other than a broken body and blood spilling across a floor of amber.

Tamlin would always be the one who brought him back to his senses. He’d lay Lucien on a couch or a bed, make sure there were roses nearby – no hard task in the Spring Court – and stay with him until he awoke.

Lucien remembered one time that he woke to Tam’s fiddle. Soft and sweet, completely unlike the usual jaunty tunes he preferred, the other male’s calloused hands coaxed a soaring melody from the delicate instrument. But as soon as he opened his eyes, Tam stopped and turned to him, and the spell was broken.

Lucien glanced surreptitiously around. He and the High Fae warriors accompanying him were camped high in the Illyrian steppes. He was fairly sure the others had already retreated to their tents. He didn’t mind – not much. He wasn’t close with any of them.

Shifting slightly on the icy rock, he stared at the horizon, the grey-blue sky the color of Feyre’s eyes. He wondered if she was missing the roses as much as he was.

He’d been dreaming of them lately.

The first dream had come the first night Ianthe tried to kiss him. He’d felt nauseous for hours afterwards, dry-heaving, her thick scent – somehow she always smelled like sex – lingering in his nose, on the roof of his mouth.

He’d fallen asleep with his cheek pressed against the cold porcelain of the toilet, and awoke hours later to the soft rays of a dawn sun and a dim sense of comfort. Ianthe’s smell was gone, and in its place was the scent of Tam’s roses, and… something else he couldn’t place.

Honeysuckle? Sage? Lavender?

He’d chased the scent – _new grass? mint? strawberries?_ – but it eluded his grasp, and finally dissipated altogether, leaving him with nothing but a vague sense of loss.

The experience had repeated a few times since then, always when he felt most alone, most panicked, most like the Lucien who had stumbled into the Spring Court a broken child. Always he would wake with that indefinable scent lingering, teasing his senses.

And then came Calanmai.

He’d been away from the Spring Court for so long he didn’t even realize what day it was until the sun started to set. That had hurt. The bonfires – Cauldron, he loved the bonfires on Calanmai. He loved the thick scent of magic in the air, the green-metal smell of the earth’s lifeblood. He loved the wildness, the freedom to choose a partner as he pleased. Really, the only thing Lucien didn’t enjoy about Calanmai was the magic’s effect on Tamlin. He wasn’t sorry to miss that, miss seeing Tam’s eyes rove over the scores of females (only females, only ever females) lined up for his delectation. He wasn’t sorry to miss the shuddering feeling of magic released, even when it meant that he could satisfy his own desires, sharing a bed of soft spring grass with a hazel-eyed male, a female with skin brown as the once-again fertile soil cradling them, a male with hair bright as early morning sunlight.

That night, far from his erstwhile home, from anyone he cared for, from anything familiar, Lucien felt… forsaken.

He’d mumbled an excuse to his companions and left them in a clearing, letting his feet go where they would, trying not to think of the celebrations taking place without him, the female Tamlin would choose, the world he was suddenly – coldly – locked out of.

Before Lucien had known what he was doing, he’d collapsed in the roots of a frost-rent tree, hot tears tracing lines of salt down his face, his body shaking with sobs, with the intense force of his loneliness.

 _Cauldron_ , it hurt. He thought he might split in two from the pain of it. He wanted his mother, his lost love, Andras, Tamlin, Feyre, anyone.

No one came.

He’d cried himself to sleep, there in the roots of the tree, curled into a tight ball like a child afraid of the dark.

His dream that night was different. Instead of the memory disappearing when he woke, images lingered:  velvety pink petals and the sweet scent of honeysuckle coupled with the rich, dark smell of newly-turned earth.

When he opened his eyes, the snow around him had melted, and the frost-struck tree was green with new leaves. Roses, their pink buds like lips puckered for a kiss, wound around the trunk.

He’d slowly gotten up and staggered back to the main camp. His companions barely gave him a glance. They were all Tam’s friends, really. Lucien supposed Tamlin hadn’t wanted Lucien to be distracted from his mission. He knew two of them fairly well – Bron and Hart. High Fae who’d been in Tamlin’s war-band all those years ago. They’d been Under the Mountain, too, but they got to stay in the audience as Lucien was tortured and beaten and left in unspeakable pain.

Just like how Tamlin got to sit on a throne on a dais.

Lucien twitched nervously like he was trying to get rid of a pesky fly, droplets of water flicking from the ends of his sodden locks, but now that he’d let the thought in, it dug its claws into his mind and made itself at home.

He couldn’t blame Tam. He didn’t. And yet…

And yet Tam never seemed to be the one who got hurt. He wasn’t the one whose eye Amarantha tore out. He wasn’t the one whom Feyre shot dead with an arrow of ash. He wasn’t the one whipped by the man he loved, left to languish, unable to heal.

He wasn’t the one who’d been tied up, waiting for red-hot spikes to slowly skewer him. He wasn’t the one who’d had to solve the riddle so that wouldn’t happen.

Hell, he wasn’t even the one who’d been beaten into a pulp by Amarantha. That was Rhysand, who, for all his damnable faults, seemed in those last moments to hate the witch as much as – if not more than – anyone. All Tamlin suffered was Feyre stabbing him, which wasn’t much, seeing as his heart was stone. He’d healed as soon as the ash knife dropped to the floor. And then it was over, and he killed her, killed Amarantha.

Lucien’s gaze dropped from the horizon to his hands. He splayed his fingers cautiously, and orange flames flickered along them, dancing in a way that almost seemed joyful, warming his chilled skin and searing bright colors behind his retinas. His good eye began watering, but he didn’t avert his gaze, trying to burn away the traitorous thoughts that whispered of Tamlin’s faults and who paid for them when he failed.

With an effort, Lucien dragged his memories to a different Tamlin – the one he fell in love with. Before… everything.

It had started so simply. Lucien had needed comfort – needed it badly – and Tam was more than willing to oblige.

Neither of them had ever acknowledged it, exactly. Never spoke of the stolen moments in dark corners of the Spring Court mansion and shady alcoves in the gardens, nights defined by deep, searching kisses, and Tamlin’s broad fingers tangled in Lucien’s flame-red hair, and the absence of the loneliness that seemed to stalk Lucien wherever he went, waiting for a moment of weakness before pouncing and devouring him once more.

Lucien didn’t know if what Tamlin felt for him was love, but whatever it was, it was enough. To be Tam’s best friend, his right hand, his lover – it was enough.

Until Amarantha, of course. Until Feyre.

Until Lucien slept alone every night, and only saw Tam’s jade-and-amber eyes light for Feyre. Until they lost her, and it fell to Lucien to fix it.

For a moment, Lucien let himself dream about a different outcome, one where somehow – he didn’t know how – Tamlin had enough love in his heart for both Feyre and Lucien, but then he shook it off again, impatient with himself. Tamlin had drawn away from him far before Feyre made her appearance in their lives. And it was only after Under the Mountain that Tamlin had become… what he was now.

Try as he might, Lucien could not shake the image of Feyre the last time he saw her:  palms splayed against Tamlin’s invisible barrier, eyes wide with terror. It was the first time he truly saw the changes the past months had wrought on her body; she had dark circles beneath her eyes, her cheekbones were sharper than even Rhysand’s, her pretty dress hanging off her body in loose folds. It struck him like a blow, how thin she was. In that same instant, he seemed to see Ianthe’s smiling, voluptuous body overlaid on Feyre’s emaciated one, like Ianthe was – was feeding on her, stealing Feyre’s body as well as her (and Lucien’s) place in Tamlin’s life. Lucien’s gorge rose, and all he could do was choke out his eternal refrain:  _Just – be patient, Feyre. Please. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll try again_.

And then he’d left her.

He didn’t know if he’d ever see her again, and he’d left her like that. He’d hurried away like a dog at the heels of its master, not like a fox or a Fae. By the time they’d gotten back, she was gone, stolen away by that golden-haired demon Rhysand called cousin. Lucien should’ve known that Rhysand would exploit any vulnerability they displayed – and that included exploiting Feyre’s pain and suffering. The daemati bastard must have used his powers to sense Feyre falling apart, tearing herself to pieces.

Lucien could do nothing but blame himself, especially when Tam found the emerald from their engagement ring on the floor of the mansion, surrounded by shards of broken windows. The High Lord of Spring collapsed to the floor and howled his anger and grief, and Lucien was barely able to shield his face from the sharp glass that slammed through the rooms. When Tamlin’s magic died down, Lucien’s forearms were sliced almost to ribbons. They healed. That time.

Lucien rubbed his arms compulsively, still feeling the bite of broken glass, and later Tamlin’s claws, through the bitter cold. He knows that if he rolled up his sleeves, he’d see long, parallel scars marring the golden skin. His magic, tied so deeply to his feelings, refused to heal the deep cuts left by the male he still held such an enduring affection for.

“Lucien. Lucien!”

Lucien twitched slightly, but otherwise showed no outward sign of the way Hart’s voice jolted him out of his reverie of memory. “Not frozen to death yet, then?” he drawled, his posture relaxing slightly on the ice-clad rock. “Must be hard for you to sleep out here with no female to warm your bedroll.”

He turned just in time to see Hart roll his eyes. “You’re one to talk. Sometimes I wonder why you offered so eagerly to go after Feyre.”

Lucien gave the other male a halfhearted snarl. “Oh, please, Hart. You’re more likely to want to bed her than I. I saw how you were looking at her at our last party. You’re just lucky Tam didn’t see it.”

“I’d much rather have Ianthe, but no – I’m not good enough for her. She’d rather have _royalty_.”

The jealous look he shot at Lucien sends a roll of nausea through the pit of his stomach. “She’s not all that,” Lucien muttered.

Hart laughed, the booming sound too raucous for the bleak mountains surrounding them. That sound belonged to Tam’s ballrooms, not the Illyrian Steppes of the Night Court. “Oh? That’s surprising. She certainly looks it.”

“Well, she isn’t,” Lucien snapped, standing abruptly, giving his head a quick shake that sent freezing droplets of water showering over Hart. The other male didn’t seem to notice; it was raining heavily enough that it couldn’t well make Hart any more wet than he already was. “Get the others. We need to get going. I’m done wasting time.”

He _would_ find Feyre. He’d find Feyre, and return her to Tamlin’s waiting arms.

And then…

Well, he would always have the roses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Lucien just wants to be angsty. So angst. Do not blame me. Also, yeah, I screwed around a bit with the timeline, Calanmai hasn’t happened yet in canon. I just couldn’t resist.
> 
> Anyways, please leave a comment if you like it! I meant for his confrontation with Feyre from ACOMAF to be in this chapter, but I guess it'll have to wait until next time...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long-awaited Feyre/Lucien confrontation. After months of searching for Feyre, Lucien and his sentinels find her in the Illyrian steppes. (All dialogue + some description pulled directly from ACOMAF)

“Feyre.”

Lucien almost couldn’t believe it. After so many weeks of searching, so many cold nights, so many panicked worries about whether he’d ever find her – and if he did, what state she would be in – Feyre now stood before him.

“We’ve been hunting for you for over two months,” he breathed, trying not to betray how his hands shook, how he could feel heat in his good eye that meant tears were not far off. She may have had an arrow aimed at him, but she was alive. She was _alive_. Thank the Cauldron, she was alive.

“How did you find me?”

Perhaps his relief had been too soon.

“Someone tipped us off you’d been out here, but it was luck that we caught your scent on the wind, and –” Lucien took a step toward her.

Feyre stepped back, and he froze, his eye widening slightly. The cliff behind her was too high for even a High Fae to survive the fall.

“We need to get out of here. Tamlin’s been –” _What to tell her?_ “He hasn’t been himself. I’ll take you right to –”

“No,” Feyre breathed, and with that word, she pierced Lucien’s heart as surely as if she had let the arrow fly. His words died in his mouth. He could sense the four sentinels with him glance between them. Lucien scanned her, the full body wrapped in black leather, arrow aimed at his heart, hair tied back, a look in her eyes not dissimilar to Rhysand’s. Lucien’s stomach churned at the realization. She was alive, but she wasn’t unharmed. Her mind was still… his. It still belonged to the High Lord of the Night Court.

It must.

“Feyre,” Lucien said, holding out a hand. “Let’s go home.” _Please, Feyre – please, just take my hand, and it’ll all be all right,_ he begged silently. _Break his control, and I can take you beyond his reach, I promise._

She didn’t move.

“That stopped being my home the day you let him lock me up inside of it.”

Lucien’s stomach lurched once more, but he didn’t let it show on his face, besides a slight tightening of his mouth. “It was a mistake. We _all_ made mistakes. He’s sorry – more sorry than you realize. So am I.” He carefully stepped towards her again, then stopped when she continued to back up. The stream – Rhys would let her die in the stream before he let Tamlin have her back. Lucien knew he would.

He had to get her out of here. Now. Before Rhysand destroyed her utterly – destroyed them all.

“Feyre,” he pleaded, and dared another step, his hand outstretched, fingers aching from the cold.

And when she turned her arrow towards him, he saw her eyes again, and what was in them:  disgust and contempt. That was all he could see. He took a single, shuddering breath and fought back the pain once more. He would make Rhysand pay for this. How could he have taken his friend, his Feyre, and turned her into – this? A female who’d look at him like she looked at – at Amarantha?

“Put the arrow down.” Lucien’s voice was a murmur, like she was a deer who’d startled. Under Rhysand’s control, she wouldn’t listen to logic. Couldn’t. Behind him, the sentinels closed in. _So close_.

“Don’t,” Feyre breathed. “Touch. Me.”

Lucien almost flinched at the venom in her voice, shrank back from the tiny part of him that remembered this Feyre from her first days in the Spring Court, when she thought they were monsters. Then, the venom had been what made him love her. Now…

“You don’t understand the mess we’re in, Feyre,” Lucien pleaded, desperate now, thinking of the ruined manor, Tamlin’s wild grief, Ianthe’s plans. “We – _I_ need you home. Now.”

He needed her. He _needed_ her to be home so badly that he couldn’t stand it.

Lucien had to get her away. He had to, he had to _had to had to get her away_ only one touch and he could winnow her to safety –

He lunged.

His finger grazed the sleeve of her leather jacket.

And then –

She was gone. Lucien staggered, barely catching himself before he went over the cliff – and whirled, eye wide. No. _No_ –

He could feel Bron and Hart at his side flinch and back away. And with good reason.

Feyre now stood at the edge of the forest, and Rhysand was at her side.

Lucien froze, his stomach an icy, roiling pit of dread. Their faces were mirrors to each other, and he decided once again that Rhysand had to be controlling her.

“Little Lucien,” Rhys crooned, and Lucien wanted to stab him, eviscerate him, plunge his knife so deep into the bastard’s tunic that the tip would pierce his back. “Didn’t the Lady of the Autumn Court ever tell you that when a woman says no, she means it?”

He _didn’t_. How _dare_ that prick bring up Lucien’s mother? “Prick,” Lucien snarled, using his fury to storm past the frozen sentinels. “You filthy, whoring prick.”

Feyre growled at him – actually growled.

Lucien’s eyes immediately darted to her. His voice was nothing but quiet horror as he asked, “What have you done, Feyre?”

What _had_ she done? She couldn’t have put on those fighting leathers, that sneer of icy contempt, of her own free will – could she?

“Don’t come looking for me again.”

“He’ll never stop looking for you; never stop waiting for you to come home.”

At last, he’d spoken words that hit her. Her mask dropped slightly. Eagerly, he pressed his point, before Rhysand could regain control:  “What did he do to you? Did he take your mind and –”

“Enough.” Lucien froze at the pure command in Rhysand’s voice. “Feyre and I are busy. Go back to your lands before I send your heads as a reminder to my old friend about what happens when Spring Court flunkies set foot in my territory.”

He’d do it – Lucien knew he would. The remaining color drained from his face, leaving it deathly pale. “You made your point, Feyre – now come home.” It was all he could do not to fall to his knees and beg her.

“I’m not a child playing games,” she said through her teeth.

“Careful, Lucien,” Rhys drawled, “or Feyre darling will send you back in pieces, too.”

 _She wouldn’t. Not me. I’m her_ friend. “We are not your enemies, Feyre,” Lucien pleaded. “Things got bad, Ianthe got out of hand –” _that was an understatement_ “– but it doesn’t mean you give up –”

“You gave up,” she breathed.

It was as if the entire world caught its breath. Lucien could see Rhysand go utterly still, and it was at that moment that he knew the High Lord was not controlling Feyre’s mind.

“ _You_ gave up on me,” she said, a bit more loudly. “You were my friend. And you picked _him_ – picked obeying him, even when you saw what his orders and his rules did to me. Even when you saw me wasting away _day by day_.”

Something in Lucien snapped.

What he wanted to say to her was this:

 _I gave up on_ you, _Feyre?_

_What about me?_

_I went through the same shit as you did Under the Mountain. I was beaten and tortured and threatened with the worst death possible. I was whipped by my best friend, and tied up to be crushed to death, and I risked my ass for you and Tam over and over and over again._

_What did you get? Tam as your husband. You lucky bastard, you have no idea how jealous I am of you. You were brought home and he cherished you and kissed you and made love to you._

_What about me?_

_I got Tam ignoring me and inviting Ianthe in and – you don’t even know. You don’t even know, Feyre. Do you know how she touched me? What she said to me? Of course not. You were too desperate for her help to trust what I said about her._

_Do you know about the nights when I couldn’t sleep any more than you could, because I was terrified she would come to my room and I would have to say yes?_

_Maybe I didn’t see you wasting away, but you didn’t see my heart dying._

What he said was none of that. Tam wouldn’t have wanted him to. He needed to remind her why things happened the way they had – for his own High Lord.

“You have _no idea_ how volatile those first few months were,” Lucien snapped. “We _needed_ to present a unified, obedient front, and I was supposed to be the example to which all others in our court were held.” _Don’t you get it, Feyre? Don’t you know what I’ve done for him? Do you have any idea how much I fought for you?_

“You _saw_ what was happening to me. But you were too afraid of him to truly do anything about it.”

Lucien’s heart wailed. _I tried, Feyre, I tried. At least I saw you. You didn’t even see me._

_You don’t see me now._

“I begged you,” she said, the words sharp and breathless. “I begged you so many times to help me, to get me out of the house, even for an hour. And you left me alone, or shoved me into a room with Ianthe, or told me to stick it out.”

Lucien’s clever tongue deserted him.

All he could say, his voice almost softer than the patter of rain around them, was, “And I suppose the Night Court is so much better.”

Feyre’s eyes locked on him then, and he swore he could feel the remaining threads of what had been their friendship shatter like ice.

“When you spend so long trapped in the darkness, Lucien, you find that the darkness begins to stare back.”

Lucien watched in abject horror and helplessness as the changes that had been wrought in Feyre over the past few months became all too clear. Talons grew at the tips of her fingers, as vicious as the huge, membranous wings sprouting from her back that seemed to form from the shadows themselves, the talons at the apex of each glinting as if they’d been honed.

He took a step back – he couldn’t help it. “What did you do to yourself?” he choked out.

She smiled then – a thin, vicious little smile. “The human girl you knew died Under the Mountain. I have no interest in spending immortality as a High Lord’s pet.”

Lucien shook his head, then couldn’t seem to stop shaking it. “Feyre –”

“Tell Tamlin,” she said, her voice heavy with threat and hatred and fury, “if he sends anyone else into these lands, I will hunt each and every one of you down. And I will demonstrate exactly what the darkness taught me.”

Lucien couldn’t control his expression anymore. He took a shuddering breath that stung like his ribs were broken.

Who was left for him, now? Andras dead, Tam uncaring, Feyre… gone.

He could do no more.

Lucien nodded to the sentinels, numbly, and they vanished. He lingered a moment.

“You’re dead,” he said softly to Rhysand, putting every ounce of his pain and heartbreak into the words. He knew they wouldn’t get through to the bastard, anyways. “You, and your entire cursed court.”

And he winnowed away.

It wasn’t until he’d staggered a few steps away from the sentinels that he finally fell to his knees and vomited.

He’d been wrong. Getting Feyre back wouldn’t fix anything.

She was broken – permanently.

And so was he.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just when you thought I had reached peak levels of angst. I am so sorry. (Okay, not really, but...) Feel free to leave comments, especially since this is the first time I've done a rewrite instead of an original scene.
> 
> I'm also on Tumblr as birdiethebibliophile!


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